Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake (1757-1827)
It happened four years ago and it still sends a shiver up and down my spine when I think of it, whenever I hear the word "Detroit", or whenever I hear
his
name mentioned.
I was 35 at the time, and much as I am today – tall, about five feet nine, busty (37 inches, although that's no big deal today, is it?) with everything else in perfect proportion.
I'm a professional career woman, I wear glasses and men
do
make passes, believe me.
At the time I'd been to Detroit to make a presentation and was due out on the red eye shuttle to New York at 7.30 the next morning. I'd booked into a large, one storey hotel, not far from the airport, with its offices, dining room and bar in the middle and two huge wings spreading out from each side. My room was slap in the middle of one long corridor.
I'd eaten in my room, but decided to visit the bar for a quick couple of drinks before hitting the hay. I chose a chair at the bar in a rather dimly lit corner of the large, but quiet room. Most patrons seemed occupied by a baseball game on the various television screens.
Settling myself comfortably in the high-backed stool, I was faced by a handsome young barman. "Bourbon and dry," I ordered.
"A Rebel Yell coming up," he grinned and started to mix my drink.
Suddenly I felt a gnarled, bony hand on mine from a lean-looking man seated next to me. "Allow me to get this barkeep," he said, in a southern drawl, which I found amusing – well, that awfully old-fashioned term "barkeep".
"And I'll have another bourbon and branch water," he said, pushing his empty glass towards the barman.
I looked at him, squinting in the dark corner of the bar and made out a man with an almost hawk-like face, narrow nose and the most piercing brown eyes I've ever seen, so darkly brown they were almost black. They were the most riveting, hypnotic eyes and I found it difficult to look away.
"Thank-you, kind sir," I said, in an almost mocking voice, possibly brought on by his quaint use of the term "barkeep".
"And you're headin' just where, ma'am?" he asked.
"I'm off to New York in the morning," I told him.
He shook his head in a world-weary way, although he could have been no older than 28, 30 tops.
"Be careful there, ma'am," he said, in that southern twang. "Nasty town, vicious town, New York. Some really bitchin' things have happened to me there."
I sipped on my bourbon and dry. "Not like my home town, then?" I replied.
"Which would be, ma'am?" he asked.
"I'm from Boston," I told him, although I'm sure my Bawston accent had already given me away.
"Boston," he smiled, "oh, I can handle Boston, Boston's no trouble. You can get crabs there – the edible kind, I hasten to add, ma'am."
I smiled at his little joke. "Anywhere else I should steer clear of?" I asked. "Pittsburgh OK?"
He shook his head. "Dunno Pittsburgh, ma'am, it's a National League town and I'm more au fait with American League towns, like Philadelphia, for example."
Even with my limited baseball knowledge I knew that Philadelphia hadn't been an American league city for decades, but I guessed he was probably testing me out, so I let it slide.
"Philadelphia's all right then?" I asked.
He nodded eagerly. "Yep, it's fine. I can see myself ending up in Philly, some day," he said.
"And I suppose Chicago's on your list then?" I asked.
"Great little town, Chicago," he nodded, "my kinda town, ma'am. A blue collar town. No problems there – nor St Louis, either."
Now I knew he was kidding me. My younger brother is a Cardinals fan and I knew St Louis hasn't had an American league team for how long? Yonks.
My dark-haired stranger then ordered another round and as we sipped on our second drinks I noticed he wasn't watching even one pitch of the baseball on the television – I gathered it was a National league game!
I drank my second Rebel Yell quickly, then rose from my stool.
"Allow me to escort you back to your room, ma'am," he said. "Can't be too careful, even in Detroit."
I don't know why I said yes, but it must have been something to do with those piercingly deep brown eyes, because the next thing I recall is saying "Thank-you, kindly, sir" in what I took to be some sort of Southern politeness. He was gentleman enough to ignore it.
We walked down the long, long corridor till we reached my room. I slipped the key in the lock, turned it, then turned and looked at him. He looked, how can I put it? He looked so terribly lonely.
I kissed him on the cheek, in my heels I was about as tall as him. Then I said, and I can't to this day say why, "Would you like to come in?"
"That would be a pleasure, ma'am," he said, in the lovely old down South accent.
Once inside, I snapped on the bedside lights, and announced: "I'm going to make myself more comfortable. Why don't you do the same?"
I stepped into the small bathroom and stripped naked, and when I returned to the room, he was already in bed, only his head showing, his hawk-like features staring at the ceiling, as if he had spent most of his life staring at hotel ceilings.
Although it was a warm summer's night, I shivered, feeling slightly chilly, as I slipped in between the sheets and laid my hand on his side. I traced my finger down his well-muscled thigh and felt a long line of scar tissue.
"That must have been a nasty wound," I said, as he rolled and faced me, before he kissed my hungrily on the mouth.
